


The Way You See Me

by clarabauerle



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Costumes, F/M, Meaningless Fluff, Production
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarabauerle/pseuds/clarabauerle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the morning of your very first fashion lecture, and you meet Benedict Cumberbatch on the tube. It goes badly. You can't stop thinking about him - until fate takes a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter, Kings Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Unresearched, unedited, and a bit vapid- but I had fun writing it. Enjoy!

‘Cheer up, it might never happen.’

The note was scrawled on to the back of a receipt in scratchy cursive, and had been thrust into your hand by someone quickly as they walked past. You looked after them curiously, then around the rest of the carriage. Everybody seemed to be avoiding your eye.

You were on the way to your first lecture of the year and felt sickly and nervous, knuckles white on the edge of your portfolio. Your face was set, and you had worn your nicest eyeliner, but you knew what the note must have meant; nervousness always seemed to turn your face into a mask of Grecian tragedy. You tried to straighten out your frown. Choosing a London university had been one of the best decisions you’d made for a long time - you knew it had - but just at that moment you felt like throwing up. You looked around the carriage again, pushing your hair back from your face, and then froze.

Benedict Cumberbatch was in your tube carriage.  
You tried not to hyperventilate.  
You failed.

He noticed you staring, and winked. Your heart seemed to contract, expand, burst into flames. You gave him a trembling, slightly manic smile. Oh god, you needed to breathe. Benedict chuckled, and motioned for you to turn something over. The note. The note you had just crumpled in your hand was a note from BenedictfuckingCumberbatch. Was it? Moving very slowly, very carefully, you smoothed out the receipt and turned it over. On the other side was a phone number and a few words.  
‘Sorry. Dinner? My name is Ben.’  
You couldn’t help it - you burst out laughing. It was just horrendous, this situation, and once you’d started giggling you couldn’t stop. The people around you had started to stare, edging away quietly, but Benedict had stood up. In a few strides, he was stood in front of you, the edges of his stripy woollen scarf dangling just in front of your face. You followed the line of them up to his face, and your heart did another series of mini-combustions as you realised he had one eyebrow raised and was smirking slightly.  
‘Something funny?’ he asked, and you squeaked. You couldn’t help it.  
‘Sorry?’ his smirk was getting broader, and you suddenly realised that you had been staring at his mouth for an indeterminate period of time and that you should probably stop.  
‘No-’ you stammered, ‘No, nothing funny. Er, hello. Hi. Hello, have I, er. Hi. I’m-’  
And that was it. That was the moment you forgot your own name in front of Benedict Cumberbatch. He laughed again, this velvet laugh that soothed you even as it made your heart weep with pleasure. You decided that this couldn’t possibly go any worse than it already had, and Benedict’s scarf was still dangling tantalisingly in front of your eyes, so you took a deep breath and sat up straighter.  
‘Chloe. My name is Chloe.’ You smiled, held out your hand, and accidentally touched his thigh.  
‘Oh fuck, I’m so sorry - sorry - my language -’ and then, as the electronic voice said ‘Kings Cross St Pancras, alight here for...’  
‘I’m, um, I’m getting off here. Sorry, again,’ you got up, and then jumped as Benedict laid a hand on your arm. Your face flushed a deep, glowing pink.  
‘Good luck, for whatever has made you this nervous-’ and he looked alarmed as you snorted your amusement.  
‘The nervousness? That would have been you.’  
He had the grace to look surprised as you sidestepped him and ran for the doors. You didn’t notice until the top of the escalators that you still had the receipt crumpled in your palm.

Your lecture was genuinely interesting, and the next few weeks passed in a rush of all things new. Your timetable was decent but it was taking just as long to plan your routes around the city, and budgeting was taking its toll on your nights out. Luckily, your flatmates enjoyed walking as much as you; a lot of evenings were spent just exploring, finding new cafes and tiny alleyways and bits of wasteland. You got to Christmas without drunk texting Benedict Cumberbatch’s number (ha!) only because you had never entered it into your phone. In fact, you had thrown away the receipt. It was too bizarre, the thought of it, and you weren’t even quite sure you hadn’t hallucinated the whole experience.

Another year passed. Second year was fantastic; you had more control over your studies, more money, better digs. Your work was being noticed, and you tried not to preen when guest speakers praised your creative answers in lectures. Your essays were getting good marks, your own practice was improving. Guys seemed to drift in and out of your life too quickly for you to notice them, so you stopped trying. There would be time after your degree.

You finished third year in a shower of praise. You had a few projects lined up after your graduation - enough to ensure you could carry on living in London, in the flat you shared and adored in Balham. It was a little twee but you felt at home there, and weren’t short of space to work. It felt like your life was on track. You bought some new books and a pair of jeans to celebrate, and began planning ways to impress your new colleagues with your wit and grace. Your first day ended with you falling asleep to Graham Norton on the settee, buried in an old blanket and clutching a hot chocolate.

Benedict Cumberbatch, and that awful, teeth clenchingly embarrassing morning, seemed too long ago to worry about, so you didn’t worry about it at all - it became a story to mention and laugh at when repeats of Sherlock came on BBC 3. Benedict was a celebrity, after all, and that meeting had been years ago. It wasn’t as if you remembered the colour of his scarf, or anything. Or his aftershave. Or even the quirk of his eyebrow. No- you were a grown woman and you had work to be doing, so you didn’t think about Benedict Cumberbatch at all.

In fact, his own star seemed to be fading a little. The bits of gossip you noticed in the Guardian didn’t focus on him any more - he was mentioned more in passing, and he seemed to be doing more theatre parts. LA had fallen out of love with the skinny British type, and younger lead males were on the rise. Benedict was being forgotten by fangirls the world over. You pitied him, vaguely, but mostly you tried not to think about the fact that you would never see the man again. London was a big city.


	2. Fit Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've fallen on your feet in your new role as a costume assistant. So has Benedict, acting the villain in a new period drama. It just so happens that you've fallen side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day, because this is eating away at me. Enjoy!

You had managed to get your dream job. You still weren't sure how; costume design and fittings on BBC period dramas were notoriously competitive roles. It seemed that one minute, you had been emailing every fashion house within a fifty mile radius, and the next you were shaking hands with one of the most influential producers in the country. It was too perfect. You felt nervous, jittery, self-conscious about your accent that was almost non-existent after half a decade away from home. You stayed up for days on end, researching shapes and swatches from the early thirties, and your flatmates had started making you coffee on a rota for the general well-being of everyone involved.

Apart from the exhaustion, everything was going well. Your meetings with the rest of the team had been oddly reassuring. They had been pleased with your work, and had chosen some of your own personal designs - your drawings! - for the back-up costumes, and one particular favourite for the real thing. It was made clear that it was your responsibility to source, make, fit and finish the chosen garments, but you were on such a high you didn’t even contemplate the sleepless nights to come. You were used to it by now. In fact, you were so excited by your work that you were too preoccupied to read the cast list. You knew there would be the usual brood of new talent but you were hoping for a few old faces too, mostly to boast about back at the flat. You started making friends with other departments, especially the bulky crowd from productions, who were easy to talk to and useful when you were hauling crates of fabric from the second to seventh floor workshops. The actors were like hens teeth behind the scenes, obviously busy with prior engagements. Life went on as usual.

Your finished costumes, adjusted to the specifications you’d had emailed to you (at one in the morning, thank you Kate from liaisons), were due in that day for the final fitting. This would be the first time that the actors would be wearing everything at once - a sort of dress rehearsal. You were nervous, but more on behalf of your designs; it felt as though they had become entities in themselves, you’d been working on them for so long. Struggling into the workshop clutching six garment bags and a tray of coffee, you shoved everything down on a bench, assuming you were first in as usual. But as you turned around, yawning widely, you spotted what looked like one of the actors rifling through an old sample rack.  
‘Um, hi,’ your words were distorted by another yawn. You rubbed a hand over your face and willed the fatigue to disappear for just a few more hours. Just a few more - and then you could crash.  
‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t be touching them-’ a deep voice rumbled, and the man turned around. Both of you froze. 

His pale eyes, locked on yours, felt like a punch between your ribs. 

You couldn’t move. Benedict Cumberbatch.  
You were going to be fitting Benedict Cumberbatch.

 

Neither of you had time to speak. The doors opened and the rest of the costumiers trooped in, gossiping happily and each clutching their own bundle of garment bags. The rabble of their chatter broke the moment, and you dragged your eyes away from Benedict just in time. The last thing you needed was for the team to spot you staring open mouthed at one of the lead actors in your first real production.  
In fact, you needn’t have worried. Benedict was swooped upon by Kate and Sarah to do important-paperwork-things-go-away-we’re-busy in the cafe downstairs, and he didn’t throw as much as a glance in your direction on the way out. 

Well. There. The staring thing had probably been because he couldn’t place you, you thought reasonably. It wasn’t anything personal. You’d just met briefly on the tube once. You thought about the costumes you had designed - obviously for him, now you’d seen the body that matched the measurements - the flattering navy suits, the too-tight, too-pale shirts. You groaned.

‘Alright Chlo?’ Aaron asked, nudging you concernedly. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’  
‘Just tired, thanks,’ you mumbled, turning your back and busying yourself with unpacking the garment bags. ‘How was your weekend?’  
Aaron's replying chatter covered your silence as you sipped at a coffee and tried to ignore the fluttering in your gut.

You were a professional. You could do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving slowly (ha, sorry). Chloe and Benedict will have a conversation soon, I promise. Xxx

**Author's Note:**

> This is a present for a friend - gingercoco - who said that writing such things is acceptable. Probably. Xxx


End file.
